


See the Blazing Skies Before Us

by penitence_road



Category: Gwen Variants (Marvel Comics Covers), Marvel Secret Wars Battleworlds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, LUDICROUS HOLIDAY NONSENSE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 21:53:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5514659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One night in the depths of winter, meditating atop the ramparts of Castle Doom, the Sorceress Supreme senses an intruder.  She attempts countermeasures.</p>
            </blockquote>





	See the Blazing Skies Before Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sevenofspade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenofspade/gifts).



> Although there are a lot of things she could point fingers at, the author really has no one to blame for this but herself. She would like to personally apologize to sevenofspade, Jack Kirby, and basically anyone else who decides to read this nonsense.

The castle of the God Emperor _**DOOM!**_

Our story opens atop this sprawling edifice to power, a grand _facade_ that conceals _death!_ Inviting windows provide access to rooms full of spells and technology crafted to capture intruders, with _both_ growing more _deadly_ as one progresses farther in. The bulk of the rooms of true import—libraries, the audience hall, guest chambers, Doom's expansive _dungeons_ —are located below ground, joined by grottoes and caverns. What need the all-knowing **DOOM** for such niceties as pleasant landscaping?

But.

This is the _outlook_. The thin spire soars above the rest of the castle, accessible only by teleportation magic or device. Its only function is to be the _highest point_ in all the Battleworld. The view is incomparably vast (if rather lacking in aesthetic appeal).

Here we find the God Emperor's _right hand,_ a woman known to all as the _Sorceress Supreme—_ **Dr. Strange**!

The outlook is her preferred place to meditate. When she was a child (before car accidents, before training with ancient mystics, before all the great many things she has since seen), she lived in a city of skyscrapers, and so she has _little use_ for basements. Far better to feel the wind in her hair, cold and snow-laden though it may be on this night (of _all_ nights) at the end of the year.

_But wait!_

One eye cracks open, the sapphire orb flickering outward. It fixes on a point in the distance, staring at the thick clouds as though it could pierce through them with _will alone._ Somewhere, past those clouds, she has sensed something— _a disturbance!_

_Something approaches!_

To the outside observer, she moves not a muscle, but her _mystic mind_ stretches out with perceptive abilities far beyond those of the naked eye.

Her lips part—her whisper cuts through the bitter winds like the sharpest of knives!

“Vapors of Valtorr, hinder him.”

A moment passes, and another; the wind holds its breath. Then—a _frown_ , sharp and displeased on her face. Her other eye opens, fixing the darkening sky above with a stare that demands redress.

“Winds of Watoomb, heed my command—force down all that fly these skies undeclared.”

The winds _scream!_ A howling fills the air around the spire, and above, the clouds begin to _thrash_ and _churn_. Yet still, the intruder comes on!

The Sorceress stands! Her great cape billows back from her shoulders, a red flag crowning the God Emperor's citadel, as she lifts her hands, fingers forming gestures _ancient_ and _arcane_. Her voice raises in command!

“Icy Tendrils of Ikthalon! Clasp on my enemies!”

Like lightning, bolts of white leap from her fingertips and arc into the clouds! She waits, the storm whipping her hair into a furious golden mane, and moments later, throws back her head and howls her frustration.

“Oh, _come on!_ What even _are_ you?!”

 _But the sky gives her no answer_.

She growls, and any observer would choose that moment to run—as the force of her fury lifts her from the stones of the castle roof, her _aura_ springing to sudden, vibrant life.

“Fine. You want to play hardball? Lets play hardball. _Shackles of Sheol!_ _Mists of Munnopor!_ ”

She spreads her arms out to their full length—ribbons of magenta light encircle her arms, weightless and glowing bands that suddenly lance outward, _piercing_ through the storm. Blue mists coalesce around her palms and snake away, spiraling up the crimson light bridging the gap between Dr. Strange and her unseen assailant.

“All right, buddy, lets go—”

Suddenly, the wind dies, snuffed to silence as if to herald the arrival of the master of the castle—indeed, master of all he surveys— **God Emperor Doom!**

Too well-trained is the mind of Dr. Strange to lose its grasp on her spell, but she spins in dismay, words of defense springing to her lips.

“Doom! You didn't need to come. I'll handle this!”

The world's master stands with his arms crossed, his emerald cloak hanging still behind his shoulders. His gaze tracks up the taut lines of the Shackles of Sheol. The winds await his words.

“Be sure that Doom's faith is not misplaced, Strange.”

The Sorceress Supreme nods and returns her attention to the sky—an _azure glare_ bespeaking _dangerous_ displeasure. She has no more time to waste with _less-than-lethal_ methods!

“ _ **Seven Suns of Cinnibus!**_ ”

At midnight, _dawn!_ Seven suns that rise from the spire and circle the lithe form that stands at the center of universe, then _erupt_ into lances of flame, curling in on one another and seeking the unknown intruder at the other end of the Sorceress's spells. Shackles and mists, stones beneath her feet—all melt away in a heat like the _birth of time!_

Clouds explode into a screeching vortex of _plasmic steam_ , temperatures that would broil anything living within them in less than the time it takes the Sorceress's _heart_ to beat. Air bursts away in a silent shockwave, chased by the _boom_ of returning sound.

The two atop the tower stare up into burning skies. A hissed breath and an unimpressed grunt follow.

_The intruder still comes on._

For a moment, Dr. Strange feels the cold fingers of panic, then her training reasserts itself. She closes her eyes and takes a breath, her figure lowering back onto glass-bright stone. Around her, the winds die down to peace, and her knotted brows smooth out before serenity.

She breathes out, and raises her open palms to the heavens in supplication.

“ _Shield of the Seraphim._ ”

The words slip from her throat like a song, and in answer, silver light blossoms above her and outward, unfurling vast petals into the roiling skies over the castle and down to touch to the ground below. The moment floats, suffused with ineffable peace.

Then Dr. Strange's eyes rip open again, and she gapes at the sky.

“It—it—that's impossible!”

“For those less than Doom, failure is never impossible.” The God Emperor's intoned words fall like heavy stones. “Though it is—regrettable to see from you.”

The Sorceress Supreme—if she will retain the title by the time this night is over!—protests, her _not-inconsiderable pride_ stinging her to indignance.

“No, you don't understand—that shield is of _divine power!_ For something to just come through it like it doesn't exist, that would make them—”

She stops, struck to precarious silence as **Doom** turns his gaze upon her. Power emanates from him, and though his eyes remain calm now, she knows _too well_ how quickly his indulgence can turn to bouts of _deadly_ pride.

“Ugh! That's enough!”

She cups her hands to either side of the amulet at her throat. At her touch, _movement_ stirs the golden surface, and the _Eye of Agamotto_ opens to the world!

“Light of the All-Seeing Eye! By Hoggoth's might and Oshtur's wisdom, I invoke thee! Reveal my enemy!”

The column of light that rises from the outlook's spire dwarfs Cinnibus's might. Above the castle, both plasma storm and silver barrier _part,_ revealing strange stars—and, heralded by his own red point of light, a _stranger_ visitor!

“Ah,” says mighty **Doom.** “I might have known. Stand down, Strange.”

The command is, in fact, unneeded! For even the Sorceress Supreme herself was once a child, and _few indeed_ are the children that would fail to recognize Castle Doom's visitor. Though as mage she is struck dumb with shock, _Gwen Stacy_ feels an emotion building, an emotion that is not unlike _giddy delight!_

For it is that familiar red-clothed figure, his beard white as snow, his face a face that knows nothing but laughter—you, dear readers, know him best as _**Santa Claus!**_

The good saint's sleigh glides down from the star-bedecked sky and halts in the air beside the spire. The man within does not rise from the sleigh—perhaps there is some ground even _he_ would not tread uninvited!—but lifts a package from the seat beside him and holds it out.

“Hail, God Emperor Doom! Savior of realities both known and unknown!”

The saint fixes the citadel's ruler with a sparkling eye, and for her life, in that moment, Dr. Strange could not say if the greeting is _meant_ or _mockery_.

But it must be the former, for after a few seconds—a handful of eternities, they seem!— **Doom** inclines his head in acknowledgment.

“Nicholas. So you do endure.”

The God Emperor's words come flat and unawed. At his glance, Dr. Strange moves forward to take the outstretched gift from the holiday visitor's grasp. Santa Claus releases it to her care, patting her hand before his own withdraws.

“You have not disallowed me yet, Victor, so yes, I will go on with my rounds. And greetings to you as well, Gwendolyn.”

Gwen Stacy smiles, touched to marveling. “Hi.”

The saint's eyes turn to her, bright as the moon on new-fallen snow, and the smile he gives her glows no less.

“Congratulations and thanks to the both of you, who have maintained our world. No gift could be enough, but here is a small token for you both, all the same.”

“Doom needs no such tokens. But next year, you will refrain from spooking his right hand. Such displays are unseemly.”

The God Emperor turns away, cape rippling in the now-still air. Dr. Strange watches him _vanish_ , uncertain whether to feel rebuked or bizarrely touched by the words. But **Doom** is a man of much nuance, after all—his words imply multitudes. His claimed right hand returns her gaze to their visitor.

“Er. Sorry for the light show there. I've never felt anything like you before.”

The good saint chuckles!

“Never fear, Gwen. Now you will know for the future.”

The Sorceress Supreme _smiles_ , a more youthful expression than has crossed her face in many a moon.

“And I thank you for the gift of knowledge as well.”

“Ho ho ho! But of course!”

Santa Claus laughs as the reindeer's hooves cleave the air and the sleigh begins to draw away. Gwen Stacy returns his wave and steps back, watching until the good saint's transport has returned to naught but a red star that flies a sure and steady course through the dark.

Then she looks down to the gift in her hands. A simple square thing, neither larger nor weightier than a common notepad, wrapped in bright paper and ribbon. She unwraps the package with a slow and loving care.

A card sits atop the box within; a plain and elegant script proclaims its _message_.

_For Victor von Doom, acknowledgment, for he desires nothing more or less._

The returned stillness of the night is broken by a woman's startled _laughter_ , which she muffles with a quick hand pressed to her wide _grin_.

“Brave,” she murmurs, and opens the box, unfolding delicate tissue paper to reveal—

“Oh...”

Her voice trails off, and her hand presses tighter to her mouth, as she stares with eyes (bright now with unshed _tears_ ) at the photograph resting in the box.

The photo is of an unremarkable alley—it could be any of _hundreds_ of _**thousands**_ on the Battleworld. But the man in the foreground, offering her a wave from the distant locale—he is unmistakable and unique. The familiar red cowl with its black-webbed lines is pulled up to reveal a more familiar _smile_ , tugged unevenly over his mouth.

It has always looked a little self-deprecating, has **Peter Parker's** smile.

“Still alive.”

She barely dares to speak the words aloud, and lifts the photo to press it briefly to her heart. She barely dares allow herself that moment. Then...

“ _Flames of the Faltine._ ”

Her whisper now is too soft to disturb the silence, as _red flames_ sheath her hand like a silken glove. In her tight grasp, paper blackens and twists to ash. She cups the remains in her hands, raises them to her lips, and blows...

The ashes scatter and lift on the wind, carried away into the dark.

 **Doom** would not ask, she knows. His _pride_ would never allow it. But all the same, she cannot take the chance.

She breathes out, slowly, recentering her spirit.

"Merry Christmas, Peter—wherever you are."

With a last rise and fall of shimmering light, she too  _vanishes_ , leaving her hopes and regrets to the stillness of the silent night! 


End file.
